


The Fall

by Rational_Drunk



Series: Of Dragons and Jellies [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: M/M, Prologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 06:04:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9535028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rational_Drunk/pseuds/Rational_Drunk





	

**INDEX:**

_**Prologue: The Fall** _

_**Chapter 1: Of The Time Garen Was A Tightrope Walker** _

_**Chapter 2: Of The Time Jarvan Was Disgusting** _

_**Chapter 3: Of The Time Garen Disagreed With Wookiees** _

* * *

 (The pseudo-archaic speech is an aftermath of Spartacus, a teleseries I was indulged in at the time. If it annoys thou, worry ye not, a caesura in this irritating artifice begins at the end of this chapter.)

Pale brown eyes trailed up the walls for... Two dragon-lengths, that's how far he fell, to here from where the sky kissed the crevasse's jagged lips. Through their chapped distance breathed a gasp of frozen wind, filling his lungs with foreign discomfort. He coughed, a dry rasping sound.

" _Garen_."

Alarmed, he attempted to rise, but his hardened limbs were gelled to the ground. Echoes of the witch's spell no doubt, unmitigated by his tumble into the crevasse. He could only watch in horror, then, as the blotched shape of the speaker began to swell from the pocket of darkness before him, a Rakkoran helm glinting cruelly as it rose into the light.

A crash; and Garen's eyes widened absent pain as the Rakkoran was once again enshrouded by darkness.

"Well done to you, false champion, 'tis a fine predicament that your petulance brings us to," Pantheon grumbled, his deep voice resonating from the darkness, his disgust and displeasure radiating through the bitter air.

 _So the winter too, has settled within his bones_ , thought the Demacian. At this realisation, he allowed a silent breath of relief to escape his lips... which then curled upwards, puppets stringed to a sudden, bizzare amusement.

"So this..." Garen chuckled wearily as he squinted at the strip of sky, "is what they refer to as your Grand Skyfall."

"Spare me that tongue, from which a dog has gone muted," replied the Rakkoran, mirthless; bronze against ice hatching wicked sound. "I care not for the sound of your bark, Demacian dog, and if given when unwanted I shall silence you with the screams of your own undoing."

 _Not one for conversation, then_.

* * *

 

How much time had passed, Garen knew not, for the days of the northern summers were as eternal as a woman was stubborn (a very sexist Demacian remark that Garen would not get away with in Piltover today); his limbs had found sense quicker than they normally would, the crevasse's depths surprisingly warm (but still cold enough to set his teeth achatter), blushing away the ice and what cobwebs remained of the Witch's curse.

The trail of uneven light his guide, he stumbled back to the center of the crevasse, glancing fleetingly at where the shadowed statue of a Rakkoran continued to strike him with disquiet. He held no illusions as to the superior constitution of the man, and he cared not for the puzzle of his reluctance to motion when the faculty was made available, undoubtedly long before Garen himself had found his feet.

"I could find no exit to the east," he said blankly, to the silhouette or to himself he knew not, for he would sooner receive a nod from a stalactite than from the Rakkoran.

"Nor I the west."

Garen stifled a curse; an attempt lost in futility, his armour clamouring his surprise.

"But I did not see you rise."

"No, you did not."

"And yet you assure me futile foresight of westward search?"

"Yes."

His tongue robbed of pertinent speech, Garen froze, unsure if the Rakkoran thought himself a jester or…

"You would take me for a fool?" Garen said, even as the unpleasant thought took to tongue, leaving foul taste.

He could almost feel the Rakkoran's eyes roll skyward as he jabbed the shadow of his spear to the west, and said sarcastically, "I  _would_  have you take twelve steps yonder."

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, Garen obliged, skirting past the Rakkoran on the ground. No light fell upon the western passage, and in the darkness Garen took to his steps caution even as he took them to count.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven-Saint. Eight. Ni-_

_Crash._

"Is exit not found?" came the Rakkoran's sardonic voice, tinged with ever-so-faint amusement. "Alas, I would have counselled deliberation to eight step for fear of certain… hindrance to passage, but what is a lowly mountain brute to counsel so learned a Demacian gentleman?"

Garen stumbled back into the lit clearing, massaging his forehead whereupon the spring of blue and black were taking bloom. A growl.

"Counsel absent or no, you said twelve steps."

"Indeed, and the sun applauds your attention."

Garen settled into his old seat. He glared into the darkness where the Rakkoran's eyes presumably lay. "Are all Rakkorans so sarcastic?"

"Are all Demacians fools?" There was a metallic click as Pantheon rested something upon the ice;  _his spear, perhaps_. "And just when I thought the hound quit of idiot questions…"

"Ha, no, not all fools; and not all hounds. You may outmatch me in verbal arena, but pray you never find acquaintance with my sister," Garen chuckled pleasantly, unnoticing as the silhouette froze for a sands' passing. "She'll twist that infuriating tongue of yours into a hundred different lily-patterned knots."

Pantheon leaned backwards, his shadowed form melting gracefully against the ice-black wall. He yawned. "I surmise the arena of wits and tongues to not be the only array in which the Lady of Luminosity so clearly stands triumphant victor."

Garen's eyes narrowed, soft even in suspicion. "Enlighten me, for I care not for the puzzle of your words"

"Alas, both speaker's eyes and arms grow weary, and the calves distraught; for all has to be painted as clear as day to lead to your realisation." The silhouette shrugged in mock exasperation, before continuing, " _I_ , am saying that you fight like a woman."

Garen's jaw twitched. "Ha ha ha."

"Ho ho ho."

"If memory proves faithful servant, I recall certain Rakkoran being pushed to edge of shelter 'neath Excalibur's rain, a bondage from which he was  _only_  absolved when the Ice Witch invited self with presence undesired."

A snort issued from the darkness. "Your memory proves you cuckold, for your pretty face is unassuming even in the most absurd of distortions. Your sword, as large of make as it is comical, and which I surmise serves yet insufficient compensation for some distressing…  _lack_ ; is crude in strike and weak in blow, and minced meat was your certain fate had the Ice Bitch's meddling not saved you from your own uncontrollable and spasmodic spinning."

"Ah, a certainty," said the Demacian, crossing his arms before his chest, his eyes widening in mock enlightenment. "Though I fear in his grand recollection, the Artisan of War has forgotten minor detail of his spear being expelled from grasp by my 'spasmodic spinning' –  _which_ , incidentally, has me widely esteemed as 'The Whirlwind of Demacia'."

"Your fears are lost, for they have no home to go," said Pantheon. Every word dripped with excruciating irony. "The Artisan of War recalls said detail with stark lucidity, and also that Iron Spear left willing grasp, to close around a Winter Sapphire, _denying_ your compulsive spinning – which, incidentally, has you widely ridiculed as 'The Twirling Twerp of Demacia'."

Garen rolled his eyes, though not from lack of amusement. "And now both are denied the Sapphire and are grounded at the bottom of this accursed crevasse with no means of departure, save perhaps having wings sprout from our backs."

Pantheon fell silent.

"Do not be so sure," he said at last.

The Demacian straightened slowly, his brow furrowed in suspicion. "What do you mean?"

"There are other methods of scaling seemingly insurmountable heights - that do not beseech the blessings of a chicken; but rather of the sun."

"Apologies, but I fear that the fall must have taken toll upon your mind, for you make as elaborate sense as striped watermelon." (A Runeterran idiom, where watermelons aren't grown because they do not exist.  _How do they know about watermelons then?_  I dunno, tv?)

The events which followed were not quick in succession, but left the Demacian dazed and absent north; his eyes clamouring at the doors of a master always so phlegmatic to belief, as he struggled to register the unfamiliar face suddenly manifest in crystal light; barely inches away from his own.

An inaudible gasp escaped his lips as his heart fell into his gut; for it had skipped a beat.

_Handsome._

* * *

**TBC**


End file.
